


So We Reach Above The Sky

by geckoholic



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon - Manga, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Side Story: Angel Eyes, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:35:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: It takes Ash about two months after his release to run into Shorter Wong again.
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Shorter Wong
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	So We Reach Above The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Another year, another collab with the wonderful [balvana](https://balvana.tumblr.com/)/[balvana](https://www.deviantart.com/balvana). Her piece is posted here: [DA](https://www.deviantart.com/balvana/art/So-we-reach-above-the-sky-Banana-Fish-848187076), [tumblr](https://balvana.tumblr.com/post/623194218758881280/so-we-reach-above-the-sky-banana-fish-heres-my), [twitter](https://twitter.com/0balvana0/status/1281315545271488519) & [insta](https://www.instagram.com/p/CCbzevgDhKu/). Just like last year, it's been fun teamwork and this fic owes a lot to her ideas and thoughts, which is my favorite way to collaborate on a fanwork. <3 Again, thank you very much!! 
> 
> Beta-read by agent coop. Thank you for that as well! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Spectrum" by Survive Said The Prophet.

New York is, by all possible standards, fucking _huge_. Statistically, it should be impossible to run into familiar people by chance. Too many people. And yet, it takes Ash about two months after his release to run into Shorter Wong again.

He looks different out here in some ways, in others, exactly the same. The clothes are a bit more adventurous. He doesn't glance back his shoulder so often, although that still happens. He still talks too much, ignoring Ash's relative lack of response, and he still throws his head back when he laughs.

Ash almost ignores him when they ran into each other in a deli of all places, but Shorter wouldn't have that. Once he spotted Ash, he wouldn't leave him be. Started chattering on almost immediately, and now they're sat on a bench by the river, sharing a tub of ice cream that Shorter bought. It's not quite the right weather for ice cream anymore; Ash is already shivering a little after a few plastic-spoonfuls. Chocolate chip _and_ cookie dough, mixed together, obnoxiously sweet but nevertheless quite good.

“I didn't know you live so close to Chinatown,” Shorter says, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm onto the ice cream tub that's vaguely familiar. A song he heard on the radio maybe, or on MTV. “That's cool. We can meet up again, if you like. I mean, on purpose.”

Ash doesn't have the heart to point out how he's not living around here exactly, that he's only hiding out in an abandoned apartment building around here now and then, and how his room at the old man's is the closest thing he has had to a permanent address in years. Instead, he hums noncommittally as he digs into the ice cream again, pretending to be preoccupied with their treat.

It’s not like the lack of a captive audience is stopping Shorter in any way. “My family owns a restaurant. Did I tell you about that in juvie? Probably did. My sister is quite the cook, though, you should tag along some time. You wouldn't have to pay if you don't have any cash on you, don't worry. There's always leftovers. Do you like Chinese food?”

The direct question makes Ash swallow his latest spoonful, the faint remnants of the manners Jennifer taught him way back when rearing their head. He swallows and nods. “Sure.”

Shorter grins. “Cool. It’s a date, then.”

It's not, but on the days – weeks if he's lucky – that Golzine lets him roam the city without catching him back into his golden cage, he's not exactly bursting with cash. He's spent too much time as a street rat to turn down a free meal, so he nods again, then squeaks in protest when Shorter steals the plastic spoon from him and digs into the ice cream, grinning around a large spoonful.

He's annoying. But ever since they met, he keeps giving instead of taking, helping Ash out without asking for much at all in return, and there really isn't an abundance of people like that in Ash's life.

***

Shorter is in the kitchen, cutting veggies under Nadia's keen eye – as if he's dumb enough to screw _that_ up – when one of their waiters peers through the swing door to the restaurant proper.

“There's a kid at the counter,” she says. “Says he knows you. Blond, slender, trying to look cool. Won't tell me his name.”

Nadia gives him a sideways look, and Shorter's torn between wincing and doing a fist pump because, at long last, Ash actually showed up. She sighs at him, then nods her head towards the restaurant. “Go. You're of no use to me in the kitchen, anyway.”

With a grin and a mock-salute, Shorter takes off the apron and the hair net Nadia makes him wear, runs a hand through his hair to make it stand up at least a little, and hurries into the restaurant. Ash has moved from the counter to a seat by the window where he’s staring at the bustle of Chinatown outside. He flinches almost imperceptibly when Shorter calls his name but recovers quickly and turns around with a grin. He might even think that Shorter missed the slip in his bravado.

Something's off with him. Shorter doesn't ask about it, knows he won't get an answer, might only spook him. And that's the last thing he wants. Whatever happened, Ash came here for shelter. That's no small thing.

“Hungry?” he asks instead, plopping into the booth across from Ash. “We just opened, so all the leftovers are from last night, but I can heat a nice little selection up for you.”

Ash looks at him, then to the swinging doors that separate restaurant and kitchen. “You're sure it's okay?”

“Of course,” Shorter confirms. The leftovers are for family and staff, generally, but Nadia doesn't mind if he feeds the occasional stray. They're usually young members of Shorter's own gang, kids from the neighborhood, but Ash is... Ash belongs under Shorter's wing as well. She'll get it. She might be miffed at first, nag at him that he's feeding random Mafia kids now too, and complaing that he’s intending to turn their source of income into a soup kitchen, but she'll understand. “Let's head up to my room and then I'll bring you a plate?”

Ash inclines his head, gaze now moving from the swinging doors to the heavy curtains at the back of the restaurant, a sign written in both English and Chinese marking the area behind it as _private_ , before it lands back on Shorter. “Your room?”

He sounds hesitant, distrustful, and it hurts a little; all the time they spent together in juvie and Shorter never made a move on him, and yet Ash can't entirely drop his guard around him. But he covers it with a shrug and a grin then makes for the stairs hidden behind those curtains first, only turning back around to see if Ash is following him once he's halfway there. He still looks a bit nervous, but he's risen to a stand, and once he's caught up, Shorter pulls the curtain aside and lets Ash up the stairs first.. They're narrow, dimly lit, and everything around here smells of Nadia's cooking. He makes sure that he's not crowding Ash, and halts when Ash has reached the door to their little apartment.

“My room is the second on the left,” he tells Ash, still several steps below him. “Make yourself at home, turn on the TV or put on some music if you like. I'll be right back.”

He waits until Ash has closed the door behind him, hears his footsteps down the hallway, and only then hurries back down to the kitchen. He answers Nadia's questioning look with a shrug, doesn't ask before pulling a pan from the shelves and filling it with leftovers from the fridge. They have a microwave upstairs, but eh. Not the same.

Fifteen minutes later, he pushes open the door to his own room with his elbow, holding a plate in each hand. Ash is sitting crosslegged on the bed. The room is silent – he's neither turned on the TV nor the CD and radio deck flanked by a messy collection of CDs on both sides. He looks at Shorter, then at the plates in his hand, and something like surprise mixed with relief falls over his face. He sniffs the air, inhaling the food smell wafting from the plates, and grins.

“Doesn't smell half bad,” he declares, making grabby hands for a plate, and finally, his shoulders slump, his posture becoming a little more relaxed. “Give it here.”

“Not half bad, he says,” Shorter mutters as he sits down next to him, handing him a plate. “This is the best food you can get in all of Chinatown, you better be grateful.”

He watches Ash dig in with little regard for manners, like a starved animal, and shakes his head, fondly, when Ash grins at him around a spoonful of fried rice.

***

It started out as some banter between members from both gangs, the kind of good-natured ribbing that they all feel is expected upon a chance meeting, some insults to everyone's ancestry or looks or personal hygiene, those things. And that's all it would have been, had Arthur not shown up. Shorter’s pretty sure the guy is a demon in human disguise. He riled up the Mafia kids, who then kicked it up a notch towards the Chinese, who swiftly retaliated in response, and now half of them have each other engaged in fist fights or held in head locks. There's still no true vitriol, all of it could still be resolved quickly, but it gives Arthur the right background to pull out a knife.

To pull out a knife and, twirling it, head straight for Shorter. His smile is just as sharp, promising disaster, and Shorter curses under his breath. He's a decent match for Arthur, under normal circumstances, but he'd been out all night with the gang, he's bruised and exhausted and already dragging his feet whereas Arthur's steps are light. Shouldn't come as a surprise; Arthur's never fought fair. But Shorter can't afford the loss of face that'd come with calling off the fight, right here, right now, in front of everyone. He's not even sure Arthur would listen. Surely he didn't stage this little meet-up to then back down quietly just because Shorter's asked him nicely.

Shorter raises his fists. Arthur lets the knife dance in the palm of his hand for a moment longer, then throws it in the air and catches it by the hilt. Neither of them notices a third person stepping in between them, not until he's directly in both their lines of sight. That's how he must have wanted it, too, moving the cat that gave him his name, his movements light and fast.

He's facing Arthur, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Stop playing around,” he says, his tone authoritative, playing on the fact that, whether or not Arthur likes it, Ash is the leader. His orders matter more than Arthur's devotion to all his little vendettas, and there's consequences to openly disobeying him. “We're already late for the pickup.”

Arthur looks between Shorter and Ash, bristling, his hand still around the knife. Shorter stares back at him. Ash takes a step toward him, unarmed, his only shield their common knowledge that it's him their guys are truly loyal to and, what's more, that whoever dares to harm Golzine's favorite will be skinned alive. Much as he might want to, Arthur can't afford to openly oppose him. And thus, with a derisive snort, Arthur spins the knife and puts it away. He spits at the ground and steps aside.

Ash turns around to Shorter, gives him a curt nod that Shorter answers with a brief smile, and follows.

***

Shorter stretches out on his back, yawning. The ground below him is still a little damp from yesterday's scattered rain showers, the grass tickles his sides where his shirt rides up with the movement. Next to him, Ash remains still, arms behind his head, staring at the sky. It's a large expanse of blue above them, only dotted with a flying army of small white cotton-wool clouds. He chuckles; there's a metaphor in there, about their violent lives and misspent youths. An army. That's the first thing that comes to his mind. Not a flock. Nothing peaceful.

“What?” Ash asks, turning his head slightly to look at Shorter. “What's so funny?”

Shorter mayor may not blush a little bit. “Uh,” he stalls. “I've just been...”

Ash narrows his eyes, one eyebrow raised.

“Thinking about clouds,” Shorter admits. He plucks a few strands of grass from the ground and throws them at Ash, as a diversionary tactic.

The laugh that explodes out of Ash ranks pretty damn highly in the most beautiful sounds Shorter's heard in a while. It's a full-on belly laugh that ripples through his whole body, unusually light, almost sounding carefree. Shorter doesn't air that thought, of course; there are many more like that, lately, which he keeps to himself. He plucks some more grass and throws it Ash's way, watching him swipe them from his clothes, until he's calmed down.

They lie there in silence for a few minutes, until Ash rolls fully onto his side and asks, seemingly at random, “Did you ever have a girlfriend?”

Shorter blinks at him. “What?”

“You heard me,” Ash says, but now he sounds a bit more somber, like he's thought twice about the question, might regret it. He turns back around to look at the clouds, like he didn't just ask what they both know is a heavily loaded question. Not a flirt, not a come-on or an invitation, but a test.

Shorter just isn't sure what's being tested, or to what end, but he opts for honesty. “Yeah, some little flings. Boys and girls. I'm flexible.”

He meant to keep the tone light, but the little laugh Ash gives him in reply means he wasn't successful on that one. “Kinda figured,” he says, and unlike Shorter, he does manage to keep his inflection light and conversational. Arm raised, he traces a particularly fluffy cloud in broad strokes. “You seem the type.”

Shorter only hums, doesn't inquire as to what he means by that. He's curious, of course, but not entirely sure he wants to know the answer to that question. He joins Ash in staring at the clouds again, both of them quietly chasing their own thoughts.

***

One second, Shorter's still deep asleep, a happy and relaxed dreamland inhabitant, and the next he shoots up in bed like he's been hit, alarmed by Nadia yelling his name up the stairs over and over. He went to bed early, long night out on the docks for the Lees the day before, otherwise he'd still been awake at this hour. But he'd apparently looked so rundown that even Nadia had a heart and let him skip kitchen duties for this shift in favor of an early bedtime.

Well, joke's on him now, apparently.

Several horror scenarios unfold in his mind as he pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt, then hurries downstairs. A fire, a robbery, an accident...

At the foot of the stairs, leaning on Nadia for support, stands Ash, grinning through bloodied teeth. That's not the only part of him covered in crimson either, he's bleeding from a cut on his biceps and a large gash on his thigh, and Shorter curses under his breath. He mumbles thanks and apologies at Nadia and takes Ash's from her. Getting him up the stairs is a bit of an adventure; he hisses every time he puts weight on his injured leg, and Shorter is sort of impressed that's his only reaction. The wound looks _nasty_.

Once they reach his room, he deposits Ash on the bed, heedless of the sheets – it won't be the first pair with washed-out bloodstains – and gets his first-aid-kit from the bathroom. When he gets back, Ash hasn't moved an inch, and it's a testament to the state he's in; usually he's proactive, keen on doing as much as he can to help himself on his own, like the kind of guy in a Western who'd rather sew up his own cuts than ask for help. Tonight, though, he's still in the same position Shorter left him, and his eyes are hazy and unfocused, barely tracking Shorter's whereabouts.

“Hey,” Shorter says, waving a hand in front of his face, and waits until Ash has dragged his gaze up to meet his eyes. “We've gotta get you out of those clothes so I can bandage your wounds.”

Ash only stares at him but, thankfully, at least raises his arms when Shorter prompts him to by pulling at the hem of his shirt. Shorter throws that in the vague direction of the trash bucket and moves his hands lower to work on Ash's jeans next. He makes it to undoing the button on top before Ash grabs his wrist, his grip so hard it's painful, a wild look on his face when. His breathing becomes arrhythmic, _panicked_ , and Shorter swallows hard.

He holds both hands up where Ash can see and says his name, repeats it until Ash is looking at him directly again. He smiles, hopes it looks calm and encouraging. “Ash. Hey, man. It's me, okay? Shorter. I'm not going to hurt you, and I'm not going to do anything you don't want. I just need to get those jeans off you so we can take care of the cut on your leg.”

Ash blinks, looks down to his own leg as if he's forgotten he's injured, and nods. He undoes the button himself, pulls down the zipper, but seems lost as to what to do next once it comes to actually pulling the pants off. Shorter keeps in his line of sight, babbling a running commentary on what he's doing and why and how he'd like Ash to be helpful, until he's maneuvered the jeans all the way off Ash's legs. They're ruined between the jagged cut and the blood, and join his shirt in the vicinity of the trash bucket.

He smiles at Ash again. “Can you sit back against the headboard? Hmm? Can you do that for me?”

When he nods but doesn't move, Shorter gently pushes at his chest, guiding him to rest against the headboard. He looks like he's about to nod off, and that might not actually be the worst thing. Not yet, though; no one sleeps through makeshift stitches without proper anesthetic.

They're both exhausted by the time Shorter's done. Ash's eyes are drooping again, and this time, there's nothing keeping Shorter from letting him fall asleep. He gets Ash situated a little more comfortably on the bed, wraps the sheets around him as best as he can, and then heads to the bedroom for a shower.

Afterward, he stands in the doorway of his own room, undecided. He could lay down with Ash on the bed, but that feels... wrong, somehow. Intrusive. He could go over to Nadia's room – he's reasonably sure she'd let him share her bed, given the situation – but he doesn't want to leave Ash. In the end, he goes to steal a bunch of blankets from the couch and makes himself a makeshift nest to sleep on next to the bed. Despite his agitation, it doesn't take him long to drift off.

He wakes up mid-morning, to a quiet room and a note on the nightstand that only says _thank you, I knew this was the right place to go_.

***

They've been running for so long that Shorter's lungs are burning. He doesn't imagine the cops on their trail fare much better, but then again, around here, they do tend to be rather motivated when it comes to fighting gang crime. Not like he and Ash were doing anything particularly vicious; a small fight with some assholes from an upstart gang further south, looking for clout by attacking the leaders of two established gangs with organized crime. Chances are they were only after one of them, and finding both was a happy accident on their part. Shorter doesn't much care. Anyway, there was a uproar, residents around the area called the police, and here they are.

He takes a few seconds to slow down, look around. They're deep into Chinatown by now, an area he knows like the back of his hand. He grew up here. He's got friends, family acquaintances or business partners in mutual beneficial relationships behind every corner. And they're not far from Uncle Lu's motel.

Shorter whistles to get Ash's attention and nods toward a crossroad. Ash follows his line of sight and nods back at him, and they change directions with Shorter leading the way.

Another minute or so, and Shorter gives it one last sprint so that they avoid being in direct view of the cops when they enter the motel. Uncle Lu is sitting behind the counter, as always, reading the newspaper all day long it seems, and looks up at the bell of the door announcing a new customer. The old man looks complacent, relaxed, but he's on his feet in an instant when he recognizes Shorter.

“Trouble?” he asks.

Shorter nods. “Two of 'em, in uniform. We've been in a scuffle.”

Uncle Lu frowns – he's known Shorter since little, Shorter and his niece went to school together, and he never liked that Shorter fell in with the Lees – but he throws Shorter a key and points up the stairs. “Room 109 is free. Lock the door after yourselves.”

Shorter thanks him and attempts a bow in respect but Uncle Lu only waves him away, so he takes Ash's hand and drags the latter up the stairs. The motel is fourth generation and older than the restaurant, lavishly decorated, the kind of look that an American would recognize from the movies. Not like many Americans are staying here anymore; they go for the big chain hotels now. Lots of things have changed in the century or so this place existed. But Chinatown is loyal where it counts, and Uncle Lu's motel is in no danger of closing down.

They find the room, lock the door behind themselves like they were told, and Shorter flops down on the bed face first. His heart is beating staccato. He's been out of breath for like half a mile. Ash is in slightly better shape, apparently still has it in him to mock Shorter for being out of form, but it only takes a moment for him to lie down beside Shorter. Adrenaline has him grinning, his face is flushed with exertion, and he's beautiful. A special kind of beautiful that only Shorter gets to see.

As soon as the thought has crossed his mind Shorter looks away, guilt crashing into him. He rolls onto his stomach and runs a hand down his face, and startles when Ash grabs his wrist. He's kneeling now, towers over Shorter and smiles at him gently.

“It's okay,” he says, voice a little quieter than usual. “I know that look, but I don't mind when it's you.”

Shorter swallows hard. He feels caught, but also something else. Something he's tried hard not to dwell on, something that carries possibilities he never permitted himself to consider. He sits up. “You... don't?”

Instead of a reply, he shuffles closer, nudges Shorter's shoulder. “No. And you're usually not so slow on the uptake. It's kind of baffling.”

Shorter stares at him. This is all progressing a lot faster than he ever expected – or a lot slower, maybe, from Ash's point of view. The thought makes him giddy. Makes an idea bloom he's intentionally put out of his mind for almost as long as they've known each other.

“Come here,” he hears himself say, and his heart beats a little faster when Ash complies, climbing onto his lap, into his arms. They kiss, but it's a short affair, a ghost of a thing, not what's most important. No – that's the part where Ash leans against Shorter's shoulder and exhales, lets himself be held, eyes closed.

They're both sweaty from the long run, their bodies singing with exertion. They might fall asleep here, limbs tangled and nothing else, but it's a start. He presses his lips to Ash's forehead, runs a hand down his calf, just a random gesture for the sake of further contact. Ash sighs against him, and Shorter finds he'll be content even if they never do anything more than this.

Ash's trust. That's all he ever wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [dreamwidth](https://geckoholic.dreamwidth.org/), [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).


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